Chapter Text
The Fortress of Meropide never truly slept. Even in the dead of night, its metal heart continued to beat - the drone of pipes, the clang of machinery, the echoing footsteps of patrol guards. But here, in the Duke's office, in his personal citadel, an almost absolute silence reigned. The very air here was different: the thick, stagnant scent of rust and the dampness of old metal was laced with the fine, almost imperceptible aroma of expensive black tea and quality paper.
Wriothesley had long since learned to tune out the prison's clamor, creating an island of order and control around himself.
Right now, the only sound was the soft rustle of expensive paper in his hands. The light from his desk lamp fell upon the elegant, calligraphic handwriting he would recognize out of a thousand. Each letter, drawn with inhuman precision, seemed to carry the impression of its author's personality - reserved, impeccable, yet not without a hidden grace.
It was another letter from Neuvillette.
It began, as always, with official business: summaries, reports, questions about supply shipments. Dry officialese that they both could have handled through formal couriers. But then, after a formal break, the handwriting seemed to become slightly less severe, as if the writer's hand had allowed itself to relax for a moment.
"...I have approved the budget, but with one amendment. I have added a separate line item for the emergency procurement of tea for the Duke's office. Judging by your recent correspondence, your reserves are running low, and I cannot permit the administrator of Fontaine's most vital facility to suffer from caffeine deprivation. It could pose a threat to national security. No thanks are necessary."
Wriothesley set the letter aside, a shadow of a smile touching his lips - sincere, though tinged with fatigue. This exchange of barbs, this care, hidden beneath seven layers of formality and irony... How had his life come to this?
The Duke of the underwater fortress, a former convict, a murderer, who spent his nights engaged in an almost intimate correspondence with the Iudex of Fontaine, discussing tea leaves.
His fingers drifted to the collar of his shirt, to the place on his clavicle where, beneath layers of cloth, his skin kept its greatest and most terrible secret. He hadn't looked at it in years, but he remembered every word, every curve of the letters seared into his flesh by the invisible ink of fate.
He had known them his whole life.
Even as a child, an orphan with a long-forgotten name, living on the grimy streets, he would study the gray, still-inactive letters on his skin. He didn't know who his soulmate was, but he knew how they would address him.
"Wriothesley, do you plead guilty?"
He hadn't known who this 'Wriothesley' was back then. But if fate had decided that would be his name, who was he to argue? And so he became Wriothesley. First to himself, and then to everyone else when he gave that name upon his arrest. He accepted it as one accepts the inevitable. He grew into that man, knowing that one day he would hear his sentence from the lips of his own destiny.
And that day came. The memory was clear and sharp, devoid of hatred, malice, or resentment. Only a fatalistic acceptance.
The Opera Epiclese shone. It blinded. It was a world he had only ever seen in newspaper clippings - a world of gleaming gold, heavy velvet, and light pouring from crystal chandeliers. And he stood at its center - a ragged teenager whose hands still remembered the sticky, phantom warmth of another's blood. The blood of those he had called his parents.
Around him rustled silks and velvets, the hum of aristocrats who stared at him with disdainful curiosity, as if he were a strange beast caught in the streets and dragged into their clean, perfect world. He felt no anger. Hating them would be as pointless as hating the rain for being wet. They were a part of this world, and he was not. He had done what he had to do. He had saved those he could, in the only way he knew how. And he was ready for the consequences. Calm, empty, and ready to accept his sentence.
He raised his eyes to the one who sat on the high throne. The Iudex. The Chief Justice. Not a man. Something ancient and beautiful. A being from this other world, woven from eternity, water, and justice. White hair that shone in the light of the chandeliers, eyes the color of amethyst, in whose depths the primordial ocean seemed to stir. He was like a distant star - unreachable, cold, and beautiful in his inaccessibility.
The Iudex looked directly at him. The crowd's noise died down. For a moment, everyone else vanished for Wriothesley - there was only him and those piercing, all-seeing eyes. Neuvillette's voice wasn't loud, but it filled the entire space, seeping beneath the skin, settling deep in the very bones.
"Wriothesley, do you plead guilty?"
The moment the last sound of the question faded, Wriothesley felt it. A sharp, searing pain on his clavicle, as if someone had pressed a red-hot brand to his skin. He clenched his teeth, not allowing a single muscle to twitch on his face. But what followed the physical pain was a far more terrible blow - an icy, deafening shock. It was the realization. In the ringing silence of his own mind, he heard the silent, mocking laughter of fate itself. The world didn't just collapse - it cracked like glass and instantly reassembled itself into a hideous, cruel joke, where the divinity passing judgment upon you is your soulmate. This was his true sentence, one far more terrible than being exiled to Meropide.
He looked directly into the amethyst eyes of his soulmate. The lips that could have said "yes" remained pressed into a thin, resolute line. Instead, he gave a slow, deliberate nod. Once. It was enough. In that silent gesture was his confession of guilt, his acceptance of his fate, and the first oath of his eternal silence.
From that moment on, he would not speak another word in Neuvillette's presence. Ever.
How could he allow his filth to touch this divinity? Their worlds were never meant to intersect.
Wriothesley exhaled sharply, returning to the silence of his office. His hand was still at his collar, as if trying to hold back the encroaching memories.
The irony of fate... their worlds hadn't just intersected. They had become tangled in a tight knot of official reports and personal letters.
The correspondence was his only weakness. His compromise. On paper, he could be himself - acerbic, sarcastic, even a little venomous. He could argue with Neuvillette, joke with him, share his thoughts. Neuvillette, unaware of the truth, responded in kind, and in these letters, something fragile and real was born - friendship, respect, affection.
But in person, he was simply the mute Duke. A grim shadow who communicated only through gestures and notes. Neuvillette had long ago accepted this 'peculiarity' of his with a flawless tact, never pushing, never questioning.
And it was enough for Wriothesley. He forced himself to believe it was enough. It was only sometimes, in quiet hours like these, that Wriothesley allowed himself to ask the question that had no answer. Why? Why did the Iudex, a being of such high rank and station, tolerate it at all? His silence in person, his familiar letters, their improper correspondence. And he didn't just tolerate it; he himself continued to write these personal letters that went far beyond official necessity.
The thought was a dangerous one. It gave root to hope, and hope was something Wriothesley could not afford.
He picked up his pen, dipped it in ink, and pulled a clean sheet of paper towards him. That same smile reappeared on his face - warmer this time.
"Monsieur Neuvillette," he began to write in his sharp, confident hand. "Your concern for our national security touches me to the very depths of my soul. However, if you truly wish to contribute, I suggest redirecting the 'tea' budget to the purchase of new mufflers for the pipes in Sector Delta. My wards complain that the noise prevents them from fully enjoying your lengthy verdicts, which 'The Steambird' is so fond of quoting.
As for my own reserves... Do not worry. I always have a private stash. Procured not without the help of a certain Chief Justice."
He placed a period. The perfect reply. Bold, warm, full of their private jokes. A reply that would make Neuvillette smile, all the way over in the Palais Mermonia.
The reply of a man who would never let him hear his voice.